The old brewery, ochre and dead windows,
appeared as a benignly if neglected castle
in afternoon’s radiance.
Inside it reeked of a boozer early
in the morning; butts on floors and the echo
of drunken voices.
Sun raked, black letters on top of the building
proudly proclaimed: “Portugal’s best Beer.”
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem